


Aw, Hell

by Oshii



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Food Poisoning, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, UFUT/WEPT, coldhope, h/c, puking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cronus gets food poisoning from bad honey ham. Dave supervises. Homestuck, AU, h/c.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aw, Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldhope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldhope/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Wanted Extremely Pricy Troll(s)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/744508) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> Written for the fabulous coldhope, based on her UFUT/WEPTverse and my prompt “what if I wrote you gift h/c involving Cronus Ampora getting food poisoning from eating honey ham”
> 
> she said do it so I said ok

It’s the middle of the night when you wake up the best, when your brain decides it’s fully recharged and _pop!_ Dream done, eyes open, and you’re lying in bed at three in the goddamn morning absolutely awake and absolutely not needing to be.

Except, you hear something that causes your brow to furrow and your head to crane to the left, and, yep, somebody’s up, one of the kids, probably Karkat wanting a glass of water “for being thirs’y” or Sol having a bad dream (although lately he’s taken to going to Bro for comfort after those, poor little guy) and you’re in the process of sitting up when you see from under your door the bathroom light flick on. You straighten up a little more and then hear with cringing clarity the harsh sounds of sudden and fulsome sickness. Oh great, who’s puking? Like you even need to ponder that particular thought.

And as your feet hit the floor and you head down the hall you notice Cronus’s door is open and his room empty, and you abruptly sigh heavily and swear a lot under your breath because you just _knew_ something about that honey ham had looked off. Goddamn fluorescent-lit bargain-toting supermarkets advertising cheap deli meats for enticing purposes such as sandwiches and _on-the-go_. Where the fuck did Cronus have to go other than therapy and bed, you wonder as you approach the bathroom door.

“Oh, man,” you say before you can help it, because he is _that bad_.

Sweat laminates his ashen skin like purple aerosol and it shines in the fluorescent bathroom light, almost as much as the porcelain he’s gripping with shaking fingers, claws clicking against the bowl as he spasms and heaves violently, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and staining violet tracks down his face. He looks up at your entry, wet-rimmed eyes blinking, and you kneel down next to him to rub his back, feeling the muscles stiffen and catch with each shuddering breath and sudden straining whole-body heave. This goes on for a while; you murmur nonsense to him, _that’s it, ‘s okay man, I gotcha_ , keep on rubbing his back, once reach up with your other hand to pet his disheveled greasy forelock out of his wet face. Man, you’d forgotten just how objectively _shitty_ intensive puking looks on someone else. Neither of the kids have really been sick yet, thank fuck, and Bro had only sunk to this desperate state on one occasion and that had been when you were younger, forever ago. It’s not something you like to think about.

“’s it,” he croaks at last when the dry heaves finally abate, sitting back and panting. “think ‘ve just ‘bout emptied all’a my fuckin’ insides.”

“Yeeeah. Think so,” you reply. “You okay?”

He sniffs and waits a moment before nodding minutely, spitting one last time for good measure before reaching up with a shaking hand to flush the toilet. You lower your own hands now and stifle a yawn, your muscles stiff after sitting on the hard tile floor for so long. “C’mon, man, let’s get you back to bed. With a trash can,” you tack on for absolute measure, because you are _so_ not scrubbing set-in puke stains out of his bedroom carpet.

He is _sick,_ you realize when you have to help him to his feet; when he clings to you and you can feel the sweat-moist cotton of his T-shirt sticking to his chest (and you by default, and nope you are not getting squicked out by your adopted greaseralien douche’s sweaty sick sweat, nope), and the way he guards his stomach when you reach his room and ease him down onto the bed, trying to be gentle but simultaneously making sure he doesn’t fall because Christ, you don’t think he was this bad even after the whole Rise incident.

“’m dyin’, Dave,” he moans, voice small and accent more pronounced due to his debilitating state. You reach out to brush sweaty hair off his forehead, checking for fever – yep, definitely warm, fucking shit – and sit down beside him.

“When’d you start feelin’ bad?” you ask, because you need to know if this is just him having food poisoning or if it’s one of those horrible goddamn viruses that lay waste to entire households in one fell swoop. You’re pretty positive it’s just the after-effects of the speculative lunchmeat you’d bought, but hey, don’t hurt to check.

“F-few hours ago,” he croaks, shifting slightly, and you watch him with minute wariness before he continues. “Woke up feelin’ godawful but tried t’go back t’sleep, hopin’ it’d pass. Didn’t.”

“Obviously,” you reply, and he just closes his eyes and grimaces. You want to close your eyes, too. This is far too ungodly an hour to be dealing with this shit. Another yawn snakes its way out of your throat, and you don’t hold it back this time. Fucking Christ. “You feelin’ up to drinkin’ anything? I think we still got some 7-Up in the fridge.”

He makes a tiny sound of displeasure but doesn’t actively gag, so you make sure the trash can is close by his bed before getting up and heading into the kitchen to procure some clear drank for him.

God, you are _tired_.

Your prediction is correct, you find the 7-Up and you even manage to unearth a fast-food straw from the drawer filled with little packets of sauces and menus from your guys’ favorite takeout places. Glory be, at least something good happened at – you cast a sleepy glance at the microwave clock – 4:16 am.

You have to help him sit up to drink from the straw, as it is not of the bendy variety, and once he’s had his fill ( _little sips, dude_ , you’d cautioned) he settles back down onto the pillows and wilts into slumber, apparently sated for the time being. You feel his forehead again, still cool compared to your hand but too warm for him, you know this, so you get up and head into the bathroom again to wet a washcloth, wringing it out and bringing it back into the bedroom.

He starts when the cold cloth touches his fever-warm skin, but you cool his face with it before draping it across his forehead, and he relaxes perceptibly, breathing slowing as he slips into deeper sleep. You brush his sweat-matted hair back one last time (that fabled greaser curl he’s so proud of and spends so goddamned long in the bathroom perfecting every morning) before heading back to your own bedroom, keeping your door cracked just in case.


End file.
